


41, 69, 91, 19

by casualhottubnacho



Series: countryhumans oneshots [3]
Category: Geography (Anthropomorphic)
Genre: All Lowercase Typing, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Mild Gore, Space Gays, Written To Develop My Own Ideas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:35:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24175963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casualhottubnacho/pseuds/casualhottubnacho
Summary: a oneshot in which i attempt to develop my own ideas, headcannons, and takes on relationships. contains possibly triggering themes (but implied/referenced, not explicit). very self-indulgent.
Relationships: Union of Soviet Socialist Republics/United States (Anthropomorphic)
Series: countryhumans oneshots [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1751557
Comments: 3
Kudos: 37





	41, 69, 91, 19

in nineteen-forty-one, the ussr hated him, and they both knew it. “i hate you,” the soviet union would mutter over america’s whisperings of “i love you, i love you, i love you” in-between fervent actions that could barely be called kisses, america grabbing him by the collar and pulling him close to fill his mouth with both salty tears and empty promises and pleads of _love me, love me, love me_ , choking when the ussr would grab him back and yank him in return and spit “i could never love someone like you” before kissing him back.

in nineteen-forty-one, america would sit with him under the trees, would pretend like they weren’t both terrified and hurt and ready for this god-forsaken war to be over, would sit too close for comfort and twitch like he wanted to hold his companions hand while using the other to gesture at the stars and point out constellations and tell ancient stories about where they came from. “maybe we’ll make history like that,” america would whisper as he traced the shape of orion over and over again, and the soviet union would scoff and say it impossible. “history will not remember us,” he would say, and america would let out a wet chuckle and grab him to bring him close and sob into his shoulder. the ussr would not comfort him, but he would not deny him, either.

in nineteen-sixty-nine, america would give him a dazzlingly bright smile, polite and respectful to the untrained eyes, full of secrets and empty promises and the only words the ussr knew to be truthful- “i hate you, i hate you, i hate you”, america’s eyes screamed as he shook the ussr’s hand and told him that he looked nice in that shade of green. “i hate you,” the soviet union would gasp against america’s neck as the superpower bounced around him, insults of _pig_ and _murderer_ and _commie bastard_ jumbled in the sweet melodies the american would sing whenever they had an office alone to themselves.

in nineteen-sixty-nine, america’s people were a mess, scattered in places they shouldn’t be- the ussr could feel them crawling under his skin, their voices mingling with and washing out his own as they watched the first men on the moon make tinny speeches over cracking television speakers, felt an excitement that wasn’t his own drum a powerful rhythm in his chest as he hands shook around each other, felt the eyes of america on the target on his back as america whispered over the phone, “i told you we would make history”, relished in the anger that overwhelmed these foreign emotions as he spat, “and i have told you time and time again that history will not remember us”, felt the receiver crack as he slammed the phone back into its place.

in nineteen-sixty-nine, america screamed when he thought no-one was watching, tore out his hair and ripped apart his fingernails and gouged scratches under his eyes as his people fought to remove themselves from vietnam, for people to love who they wished, for themselves to stay in vietnam, for people who went against the norm to learn their place or suffer the consequences. the soviet union would make his presence known and act as if he hadn’t seen anything, act as if he didn’t do the exact same thing every night, act as if he didn’t feel a spark of something innamable, an amalgamation of furiously powerful emotion when he compared the scars on his arms to america’s.

  
  


in nineteen-ninety-one, the ussr was afraid. everything was falling apart around him, and he was terrified. ukraine and belarus were sick in both a literal and figurative sense, tired of vomiting from the irradiated lands they represented, anxious to leave their father who did this to them, who had poisoned them and their people and had always done so and was continuing to do so and was doing nothing in their eyes to fix himself or them. russia was steadily growing more and more independent, staying as far away from his father as money would allow. none of them knew that they were tearing him apart from the inside out, forcing his blood out of his veins and into his lungs, tearing his skin to pieces until he was burning himself in the water because he needed to get _out out out out out-_

in nineteen-ninety-one, america kept glancing over at him at meetings, drumming his fingers on the table, tapping his foot against the floor, picking at the splintering bottoms of the chairs, showing every sign of the thought _i need to talk to you ask me what’s wrong talk to me let me talk to you_. the soviet union tried to keep his curiosity at bay the first few times he noticed the behavioural pattern, but as his very flesh peeled off the bone and his every nerve sobbed right along with him, he eventually relented and demanded to know what was so important. “nothing, red,” america had whispered, and then it all stopped- the fidgeting and the looks and the mannerisms that used to terrify the soviet union because he knew that it meant america was planning something. it didn’t scare him now, though. it couldn’t compare to what was going on inside of him.

in nineteen-ninety-one, when the soviet union was begging and pleading for a god he didn’t believe in to let him die, to let the last bits of his body drift away, to let his children just _get on with it_ and leave him to rot in the bed he couldn’t leave, america came to him with a proposition. “i can help you,” he offered, his hands brushing over the ussr’s last remaining strands of hair, and the ussr had accepted. “anything to end this hell,” he had choked out from around what few chunks of tongue he had left, not caring what america was offering. _i am not in control,_ he had thought to himself as america had nodded once and left him alone once again.

in nineteen-ninety-one, the ussr did not die. his signature, soft and swooping and elegant and warm and caring and everything he wasn’t, everything he had ever wanted to be, was dotted and crossed on a packet of paper, and union of soviet socialist republics was no more, and that was okay. russia and belarus and ukraine and lithuania and estonia and latvia and kazakhstan and armenia and azerbaijan and georgia and kyrgyzstan and moldova and tajikistan and turkmenistan and uzbekistan all signed their names and stared at him with varying expressions, waiting for him to finish falling apart in front of them- but he didn’t. his signature one a sheet in america’s office made sure of that, made sure he was going to live and love and exist and just _be_.

  
  


in twenty-nineteen, the ussr laughed uproariously, hand on his chest, as america gagged on a piece of boba that had gotten stuck in his throat, his volume increasing when a man stood up and attempted to dislodge the boba through means of the heimlich maneuver, shooting the soviet union a dirty look for not helping the entire time. the boba shot out of america’s mouth… directly onto the soviet union’s forehead. that shut him up real quick. america began to choke again, this time on his own barking laughter, pointing at his lover’s face, where the piece of boba was now stuck and refusing to fall. the ussr soon joined in, not giving a damn how stupid he looked as he managed to breath repetitive “i love you”s in-between breaths.

**Author's Note:**

> mmmmmmmmm space gays give me the space gays


End file.
